The burned man
by Esta
Summary: Sherlock had never believed in "happily ever after", in these stupid fairy tales where in the end the prince marries the princess and all is well. Happily ever after would be him and John. He had hoped, maybe, there was some happiness for him in that, he had hoped till the day John went back to Afghanistan. Sequel to "His last dance".
1. Chapter 1

**The burned man**

_Sherlock had never believed in "happily ever after", in these stupid fairy tales where in the end the prince marries the princess and all is well. Happily ever after would be him and John. He had hoped, maybe, there was some happiness for him in that, he had hoped till the day John went back to Afghanistan. Sequel to "His last dance". _

**Chapter 1**

They both were marked men. Sherlock's body still bore the marks of abuse and neglect and John had been a soldier, shot and deadly wounded. But far worse than the wounds inflicted on their body was the pain in their soul. Both were lost without the other.

Every morning Sherlock awoke with a start and the blood cursing through his veins, because for one moment in the last minutes of his sleep he could not find John's body next to him. But then, every morning, he opened his eyes and John was standing there, barely dressed in his shorts and a cup of tea in his hand. Sometimes when the sunlight shone through the window John was glowing and Sherlock felt as if his chest might burst. Sherlock had never known happiness in his live and seeing John in the shy light of morning always felt like a shock. And sometimes when John smiled and asked "Tea, Sherlock?"he could feel the tears rising in his eyes. Such a weak creature Sherlock had become.

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It always had been Sherlock who had needed little sleep, who was the early riser. But since Sherlock came back from the dead John always woke first. Out of fear. John feared nothing more than waking up in the morning and Sherlock was gone again.

Sherlock had made him whole, Sherlock had healed his soul. Sherlock, beautiful Sherlock. John loved to watch him sleep; Sherlock was so vulnerable when resting in John's bed. Sherlock's naked body was only partly covered, his chest nearly as white as the sheets glowed in the rising light, his locks were always a mess. But the most beautiful thing was his face, so relaxed, ethereal and unearthly. John could watch for hours but most times Sherlock woke with a start searching for him. John. And that made him smile, because the hours in the night and the early mornings were the only ones in which Sherlock admitted his true feelings, lost the facade of the cool detective and became the man John loved most: An honest man.

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Sherlock knew John was full of fear and doubt. It was something that never passed. He saw it for the first time when they solved their first case after his fake-death: There had been this man who had murdered his wife. He and John had cornered him and Sherlock had started to insult him, provoke him to make a confession. But suddenly he had this gun and before Sherlock could react John had pushed him out of the way and himself in the line of fire. It had been John's only luck that the man was inept in handling a gun. He had shot the wall instead of John. But it had nearly made Sherlock lose his mind. It was the first time ever John had seen him cry, between kisses and sobs Sherlock had told him for the first time "I love you!"

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Every day felt like losing Sherlock again. Every day Sherlock ran after another stupid case not caring for his own safety, for his own life. Every day it killed a part of John and made him clutch even harder on the consulting detective.

John knew that Sherlock knew. There were these touches, soft and reassuring on his back. There were this feather light kisses on his cheeks, not the longing kisses of the night but caring ones, kisses to show John Sherlock was safe.

But John never felt this way. He felt insecure and vulnerable and after a few month living with Sherlock he got deep circles under his eyes again and now and then his hands started to shake. Sherlock always grabbed them to steady John's touch. There were questions in Sherlock's eyes, questions he never dared to ask. Not until one night when John had started to shout at Sherlock, insulted him, threatened him only to keep him safe. "Will you leave me?" This whispered question did it for John. Never, never, Sherlock! After that they had slept together for the first time.

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Mycroft Holmes had always been on the watch. His little brother was everything he had left and even if he had told Sherlock one time after another that caring was not an advantage he knew it was a lie. For the first time Mycroft felt at rest because there was someone else to protect his brother, too.

Caring for Sherlock meant caring for John. And so Mycroft had another task: Keep John safe. It was a far easier task than keeping his brother out of trouble. John was a sensible man, caring and dutiful but not impulsive. And even though Sherlock might have had the bigger brain it was John who did the thinking before rushing into a new adventure.

But still: Keeping John safe was Mycroft's biggest task. He knew if anything would happen to John, insanity's iron grip would wring the life out of his little brother. There would be nothing left of Sherlock but a body that looked like him. His mind and his soul would be lost without John.

Keeping John safe had been easy. Easy until that fateful day when Sherlock and John had their first big row and Sherlock in his stupidity had kicked John out of the apartment, had insulted him as a slut and worse only because his angry mind had overcome his true feelings. Keeping John safe was no longer easy because after that incident he decided to join the army again: One last duty, one last campaign to feel useful again.

Sherlock had been in a rage, had shouted, begged, threatened. But John had gone. Mycroft knew why. He knew of John's never truly healed heart, he had watched John after Sherlock's "suicide" and for some time had feared John would follow. And when Sherlock finally came to his older brother, sobbing and totally lost, admitting his weakness, Mycroft had promised: To keep John safe again.

He did everything he could, send John here, send John there – but not to the front line, not into action. He made sure of that. Until the day when a suicide bomber blew himself up in the middle of the main camp, killing 32 soldiers, six went missing. Mycroft could never have prevented that.

It had been Sherlock's only joy these past weeks, when Mycroft had come home with news from John. How he had operated on the man with the wounded leg, how he had saved this woman beaten up by her own husband in Kundus. He had loved that because stories about John meant John was safe.

Mycroft was barely able to control himself that day, the day he came to tell another story. He thought he had seen his brother in every state of pain, but nothing could be compared to that blank look on his face when Mycroft told him that John was gone: Blown up in an explosion, not even a body left to bury. Sherlock's eyes lost focus and he sacked down as if his life was sucked out of him.

Mycroft touched him, spoke to him, kissed him, called his name. But Sherlock was lost. His little brother was lost to a world of darkness, a world he could not follow into. Sherlock was gone: A prisoner in the deepest dungeon of his mind castle.

_To be continued_


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2**

It was only a matter of days till he would be forced to use violence on his own brother. Sherlock sat motionless, his eyes blank, he was not eating, not drinking. It was only a matter of days till malnourishment would slowly start killing him and Mycroft would never let that happen. He knew it: In only a few days he would force his beloved brother into a clinic, force him to eat and drink, force him to live, even though there was nothing left of the genius he had been until a few hours ago.

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Sherlock was with John. Deep down in his mind he had made himself a secret place, a place full of memories, a place where no harm could be done to him. Sherlock was not lonely, he was with John.

"Is this all right?" he whispered into John's ear while he touched his naked body, his chest rising and falling as John tried to catch his breath. Sherlock kissed John behind his ear, his tongue slowly traced the line of John's neck, down his back. Sherlock could not keep his hands by himself, touched John again, before he kissed him.

Sherlock was so insecure when it came to love. "Am I doing it right, John?"

John chuckled. "Stop asking", he said. "Deduce!"

And so Sherlock did.

Breathing: Ragged. Pupils: Dilated. Heart beat: Too fast. Body: Full of heat. Ohhhhhhh! And clearly in a state of arousal. Like Sherlock himself.

He kissed John again, pushed his tongue into John's mouth this time; licked his lips, his teeth.

John moaned and Sherlock pressed his body against his lover's lean frame.

"Sherlock", John whispered.

And from somewhere outside his safe-place Sherlock felt pain, deep down in his heart. But Sherlock pushed it away, buried it again in this joyful memory.

"John, I want you so much."

John chuckled again. "You know what to do, Sherlock, don't you?"

"I am afraid." It was seldom Sherlock admitted something like that. And John touched his face caringly.

"You don't have to, you know, not with me." And with that he pushed the flask of lubricant into Sherlock's hand.

It was the first time Sherlock truly made love to a man. He took John slowly and carefully, because Sherlock feared for his own sanity. He had never buried himself in a man and it felt like heaven. John was heaven, John was safe.

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Mycroft watched as silent tears slowly fell from his brother's eyes, down his cheeks, over his bruised lips. Mycroft watched and sighed because Sherlock still did not move.

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Sherlock was not the cuddling type. He was far too restless to lie still next to John. It was one of the seldom moments, shortly after they had made love, that Sherlock rested his head on John's chest, listened to the older man's heart beat. John slowly stroke Sherlock's head.

"Don't be sad", John said and Sherlock knew this was not part of his memory. "Don't be sad, Sherlock, for I am here and I will never leave you."

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Mycroft Holmes always was in control, only few people had once seen him truly angry and no one had ever seen his wrath. But after watching the video he smashed the screen in total rage, his face a burning red, he was screaming in anger, he kicked it until it fell over and down on the ground. He kicked it again before taking a deep breath. The mask was – again – in place. Every one of his staff understood: Taking hostages when Mycroft Holmes was involved was quite stupid. Taking John hostage was the worst mistake anyone could make.

_To be continued_


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3**

He knew it was only a matter of days. He had been badly wounded, three rips broken, a part of his skull and face over his right temple was burned, and so was his right leg. He was thirsty and shivering of cold in the desert night. And he was frightened. Not for himself but for the one man he loved. The soldier knew that his loved one walked a small path, only steps away from insanity. One little push in the wrong direction would do it for him. And in his pain muddled brain the soldier feared it was already too late, they would surely believe him to be dead and that would be the end. For both of them, his loved one would fall and bury himself in a place he called his mind palace, and the soldier would die. It was only a matter of days. No longer. And he was afraid.

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Mycroft slapped Sherlock in the face: A loud crack to make him wake up.

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Even deep down in his mind palace Sherlock could hear Mycroft's furious voice. But he did not care. He would never go back to this place others might call reality but for him was hell. He would stay where he was, stay with John. John meant safety, John meant joy, John meant living...

The pain cursed through Sherlock and for some second he was pushed out of his refuge and got a tiny glimpse of reality. Mycroft was angry. Had he really hit him?

Crack!

Again Sherlock was catapulted into reality.

"You will listen to me, brother! Do you understand? You will listen... I will make you listen."

"Is this really necessary", he heard Mrs. Hudson's soft voice before again he drifted away into safety. Let them talk. He was going to John.

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"Do it!"

"Are you sure Mr. Holmes, I mean with his drug problems..." Molly Hooper was shivering. Time after time she had flicked Sherlock together, she might be working in the morgue, but dealing with Sherlock had made quite an apt medical all-round talent of her.

"I see no other solution", Mycroft was wringing his hands. Injecting medicine into Sherlock's body was never a good idea, but he had no other plan how to reach him otherwise. Sherlock was needed – by John!

Mycroft nodded towards the young doctor and Molly carefully injected the fluid into Sherlock's system. It was a mixture that would set Sherlock's senses in alarm modus. That was why she was needed in the first place, not because of the injection but because of the consequences this could lead to. The drugs might become a shock for the already overloaded system.

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John was lounging on the sofa as Sherlock moved closer. It felt god sitting next to John. His lover drank tea while reading the newspaper. It gave Sherlock time for a study. John looked tired, nightshift. Sherlock touched John's soft hair and John smiled. Oh yes, the doctor still tried to ignore him, but Sherlock would get his attention. His fingers slowly traced down John's neck... and...

Suddenly Sherlock was sucked into bursting light. His heart beating as if he had been for a long run, he was barely able to catch his breath, his eyes still unfocused he saw two blurry figures moving towards him but no John.

"JOHN!"

Sherlock woke with this scream, only to be held by to strong hands. Mycroft.

"No... I can't... leave... me... John."

He could not stay here, not here were John was...

Mycroft spoke but Sherlock tried not to listen. He did not want to know.

"Sherlock you have to listen to this. John needs you. You can't fall apart now. He needs you. Do you understand?"

No he did not. This was not the place where John was. John was in his palace, he had to go.

"Look at this!" Mycroft pressed a photo into Sherlock's hand. "You need to look!"

No. No. He did not want to see a photo of his beloved... John... dead! Oh God!

"Look at it!" Mycroft was now shouting at him, shaking his body.

"Please...", Sherlock watched his brother pleadingly. "Don't make me."

"You have to."

And so he did. It was a blurry photo, clearly copied out of a videotape, a photo of a soldier with a bloodied leg and a head wound. His eyes were open but unfocused. Sherlock looked again, his finger slowly traced the lines of the lone figure. It was the soldier clearly beaten up, but clearly alive. It was a photo of John. His John. John alive.

"Where?"

"Not yet located."

"Taliban?"

"Some unknown group, yes."

Sherlock was still shaking when he rose.

"If they harm him, I'll kill them – slowly!" And with that Sherlock grabbed his coat and his brother's arm, leaving a stunned Molly and a sobbing Mrs. Hudson. Taking hostages when Sherlock Holmes was involved was quite stupid. Taking John hostage was suicide.

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Two hours later a plane left London. And with it one Sherlock Holmes. In the heart of the city another Holmes was on his phone. And in Afghanistan a group of terrorist still believed in their well planned plot to gain money and support, still oblivious that they had gained a big problem instead for two Holmes brothers were on a mission!

_To be continued_

**Dear readers, will John survive or will Sherlock come too late? It is up to you to decide: Please review and give me your opinion. I have two different endings in my head and so I decided to count your votes. If the majority decides John should survive, he will. If not… poor John. There are at least 10 chapters to come before I make my final decision. So let's say I will give you one week from now on to vote while I publish the next chapters. Enjoy! ;-)**


	4. Chapter 4

**Chapter 4**

"I never liked the desert, its hot breath on my face. Do you still remember, when I told you that, Sherlock? That I have now come here again, only to die... Don't bury me when they send you my body, don't trap me in a box. Would you do that for me? Burn my body and send the ashes to the sea? You will have a place to remember then, not a silent grave, but the whisper of the sea. You will have a place where the waves crash the shore and the wind will blow away your tears. I will be there for you in every drop of water, cold and reassuring, not demanding like the desert. Would you do that for me, one last miracle Sherlock? Would you do that and then move on? Without me?"

It was a silent plea in John's head. He knew he was dying and for the first time he really felt stupid. He had never stopped blaming Sherlock for leaving him, pretending to be dead even though it had ripped John's heart to pieces. He had tried but never succeeded. But now he knew he was no better. He had run away into a war from which there was possibly no return. He had done exactly the same horrible thing, had treated Sherlock worse than any man before. John knew Sherlock and him were perfect together even though they were each other's death. And John had betrayed him. Death would claim John soon and with it all the regret John felt in his heart.

John did not know where he was. He had been unconsciousness when they had carried him from the camp and into the desert. They were still carrying him and most times John was not even able to open his eyes. He was so tired and the pain in his body was a constant reminder of his friend death lingering nearby. It was the second day, or so he guessed, they were on the run. Always uphill, to the mountains, they climbed. John could hear their breathing, their capturers and his comrades, bound to each other with thick robes, walked fast. He could hear their whispers in this strange foreign language.

This evening John understood that the capture of him and five others had been planned long ago, not that John as a person mattered. They had only tried to grab as many soldiers as possible and then make an escape. This evening he had been able to open his eyes for a few seconds and had seen a man filming him. He remembered. It was the second time. He remembered now. This evening there came more men, bringing supplies and more weapons. The filming, the video it would never leave John's mind from now on. There was hope now. If there was a video Mycroft might know and if he knew Sherlock would, too. Oh God. Sherlock. "Please help me. I am dying, Sherlock."

He had spoken that out loud for someone kicked him in the face, not very hard but hard enough for him to lose consciousness again.

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"_This video was sent to Al Jazeera only hours ago and should show Doctor John Watson, better known as the man next to Sherlock Holmes who only recently was declared alive again after a fake suicide over a year ago. John Watson had just recently gone back to Afghanistan as military doctor and was reported missing after the suicide attack two days ago. We still wait for a confirmation of the British government..."_

Mycroft switched off the TV. They could wait a long time for that. But it did make matters more complicated. He dialled the number.

"Brother?" Sherlock sounded tired.

"We've got a little problem. I think they will soon enough know who John is. We have to hurry up. I have covered the whole area by now and we have tracked some scouts near the mountains, I will send you the coordinates. But you have to speed up."

Sherlock did not even give a reply and Mycroft knew that he possibly had already started to shout at the driver.

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"Watson."

Someone shook John's shoulders. "Watson", said the voice with the strange accent again. And John opened his eyes.

One of his comrades had been dragged on his knees, two men held his body upright while a third one stood behind him, a sword in his hand. They all wore scarves wrapped around their faces.

"Sit up, Watson." The man with the accent said, he was the man with the camera. "You speak or he dead."

John pushed his upper body from the mattress, the pain shot through him like daggers and for one moment his senses failed him. How did they know his name? And why should he... of course they must him think to be famous. But why? He took a deep breath. His comrade started to sob.

"Please, doctor Watson... please... I ... don't want to die... please..."

John looked at the man with the camera and nodded. "What should I say?"

"20 Billion Dollar... you live... no money, all dead."

Fear cramped John's chest and his voice was only a whisper as he spoke: "My name is John Watson..." he had to cough after these few words and felt the bitter metal taste of blood on his lips. Lung punctured, his condition was even worse. It must have been the sitting up that had given the final push on the rip to finally penetrate his organ. "Me and my... comrades... where captured." His senses began to swim. "Oh God... I... they want 20 Billion Dollars for our lives..." Again he had to cough and this time the pain was nothing he could bare. "Oh God, Sherlock. Forgive me, please forgive me." And then he sagged back no longer able to bear his own weight.

Next to him John could hear his comrades scream and then there was this loud "thud" as a head fell to the floor. Patrick, the boy's name had been Patrick. John remembered now and then he drifted into oblivion.

_To be continued_


	5. Chapter 5

_One short chapter before the weekend: Don't feel safe, I have not decided John's fate yet. But John says thanks to the three of you who voted in his favour. Enjoy your weekend. Yours Esta_

**Chapter 5**

Sherlock had told John so many things of his mind palace and unknown to the great detective John had started to create his own secrete place. John never stored anything that would matter in the search for criminals – like the different mud types of the Thames or which trees grew in which area of Hyde Park. There was only one thing John ever stored in his head: Memories of Sherlock.

His mind's construction was unlike Sherlock's: not a big, pompous palace, but a small and cosy cottage on the shore. It was a place he would have liked to go to one day with his beloved. It was his safe place, his refuge where pain and fear could never reach him. He sat outside in the sun when Sherlock slowly approached him. He let his long body fall into the grass. "I am bored, John. B-O-R-E-D!"

"I know how to spell that, Sherlock", John chuckled.

"And what do you think to do against it?"

"Me, Sherlock? Nothing since I rather enjoy reading my book at the moment."

"Boring."

"Hmhm..."

"John."

"Hmmmm."

"John, listen..."

"Not now, Sherlock please. Can you not for one moment simply enjoy the sun?"

"John, you have to listen, I don't have much time."

Pain suddenly cursed through his body and John struggled for breath. A hand was on his shoulder and he could feel the breath of another human on his face. "Shhhhh..." A whispered voice. Why did it sound like Sherlock? Was he home again?

John opened his eyes, slowly adjusting to the darkness and the pale moon above him. Clearly still not home. He could hear the strange voices far away, he had to be somewhere at the border of the camp their capturers had made in haste. "John." Again there was this whispered voice near his ear, a touch on his face and this so well known smell that remembered him of silent nights in front of their fire place at 221B Baker Street.

"Shhh...Sher..." John tried to speak but his lips where dry and crusted with blood.

"Don't speak, John. Only listen: I am here, I will be close the whole time. Remembered that no matter what happens." Sherlock spoke in hasty words.

"Dr..Dre...Dream." There was a feather light kiss on his hair.

"This is no dream, John. We found you and Mycroft is currently raising some special forces to intervene. You have to hold on only a little longer. I have got a plan, do you hear me? But I need another day to prepare. Can you hold on that long?"

John wanted to touch Sherlock. Make sure this was no dream, no hallucination. Hallucinating would be really bad in his state. Suddenly there was a soft hand in his, a reassuring grip. He held on to it.

"I will have to leave you again, before they start their next round of patrol. But I will be nearby. I will watch you, I promise."

"Sher... hurts..." He had to cough. He gripped Sherlock's hand even harder.

"You are the doctor John, so tell me if I do this wrong." Sherlock pressed down his arm, something cold touched him and then he felt the soft pain of a needle in his arm. "It's antibiotics, John. And some light painkiller. Something not too obvious."

John tried to nod, but his brain was muddled and his body in no state to honour his brain's commands. Again there was a kiss on his hair. "I leave you now. Try to rest. Try to sleep." The pain was slowly fading away into something numb. He felt sore but no longer the raging fire in his body. "And one last thing, John: Don't you dare die on me!"

_To be continued_


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6**

Sherlock knew now that there was no way back, no chance to wait for Mycroft's reinforcement to appear. John was dying. There was no time. Sherlock was no doctor, but he could clearly deduce the signs. John's skin had been so cold and white and John was only barely breathing. The punctured lung had to burn like hell, but perhaps not as bad as the real burn marks on his body. John's beautiful skin was charred black with angry red spots of blood. His leg. Part of his face and skull. If the burned skin would not kill John the punctured lung definitely would, John would drown on his own blood. There was no time to prepare, no time to wait for Mycroft. Sherlock knew he had to safe John quickly – even if that would cost his own life.

He was prepared for this situation. He had a plan he had never told his brother about. Sherlock would have to take a great risk, but this did no longer matter. Without doing anything John would die and that painfully slow. He touched his breast pocket, there they where: Two flasks with liquid – one to make John's heart stop, one to force it to life again. It would be so painful. I am sorry, John. It would only gain Sherlock three minutes before there would be the first damages to John's brain. Three minutes to convince John's captors that John was dead. Three minutes to let them abandon a dead body, three minutes to safe John's life.

Sherlock touched his belt. There it was: A sharp knife. His retreat, if everything went wrong. If John died the dagger would end Sherlock's life, two small cuts on his wrists, two cuts to match the bottles. He would bleed to death and with his life essence the pain would leave him, too. He was prepared. He was ready for the ultimate deed, for the ultimate proof of his love for John.

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Such a beautiful dream: Sherlock had been here with him in the desert. His ever reassuring presence had steadied his breath and taken away the pain. Sherlock! How he longed to see the man again. John had his eyes closed. He slipped into darkness again and he loved it. Because deep in his head there was his treasure place, a place he called home, a place he called Sherlock.

"I can't, John... please... please..."

Sherlock had tears in his eyes and for the first time John saw him looking as vulnerable as a child. He was lying naked in the sheets and stared at John with big eyes, his lips were no scowl but trembling slightly of anticipation and fear.

John touched his face, tracing along his cheek bones. "I won't do anything to you, with you, you don't like, Sherlock. You know that, don't you? What is it you fear so much?"

Sherlock was trembling.

"That!"

"What is 'that' exactly?"

"You... inside... me." Sherlock turned away from him, his body became stiff.

John carefully touched his back. "I will be careful... you know I will."

Sherlock nodded and buried his face in the pillow. "I can't... please leave me. Please. This is not working. I can't. Please." Again Sherlock was trembling and John felt terrible.

"Is it because of what has happened with these other men? Because if it is... Are you afraid of me?"

Sherlock again turned towards him. "No. Never. But this is terrible. I always felt so used afterwards, when they took me I liked it but afterwards I always felt so used and ashamed and... that's why I needed the drugs. To calm down. John I can't do this again."

John grabbed Sherlock's hands, squeezed them. He wished he had never asked. "You are afraid that I will use you?"

"NO!" Sherlock's voice got a panicked note. "No... never. You would never... It's worse than that: I fear that you will be caring and loving and soft and... and I will feel used none the less. It will destroy what we have."

John kissed him – on his head first, then on his lips. "We don't have to try this, you can make love to me as we have always done. I like that. If you don't feel that you can stand it when I... you know, when I am inside you... we don't have to. It is all right."

Sherlock moved closer towards him, buried his head in John's shoulder. "Thank you", he whispered. "Thank you so much." Like always when it came to love Sherlock was afraid and vulnerable. It made John feel quite protective and so he closed his arms around Sherlock's naked body. He blew kisses on his hair. "Everything will be well", he said and kissed him again.

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Sherlock remembered every second with John, but there had been one moment that still filled him with wonder. One day out of nowhere he had decided that it was time to give himself completely to John. They had made love for so many times but it had always been one way. Never ever had Sherlock let John enter his body. The thought alone had left him frightened. And he never was frightened of anything. Not in his professional life. But his private life was something totally different. John had only asked once and never again. He was too caring a man to insist on something Sherlock clearly detested. But then, one evening, in some strange mood Sherlock had begged John to take him, claim him and make him his alone. John had struggled with his craving for Sherlock's body and the fear to hurt his beloved Sherlock.

But Sherlock had pushed John beyond his limits. He had kissed him, first his lips, than his chest and then between his legs. He had taken John into his mouth and had made him swear under his breath. That was when John's reservation had been broken.

Sherlock had been stupid. So damn stupid. Afterwards he had wondered why he had feared this in the first place. John had been so careful, he had entered Sherlock's body in such a slow pace that Sherlock was overwhelmed with his craving for more. He had not been able to speak. Only now and then a whispered "John" had come over his lips. Oh dear, Sherlock still remembered all this joy and excitement. John had filled him in so many ways – bodily and emotionally. Sherlock had never wanted anything else after that. No regrets. No shame. Only perfect harmony. John and Sherlock. Sherlock and John. It was something that would exist forever. It was something Sherlock held onto while planning John's death. Sherlock and John. John and Sherlock. That was something even death could not part.

_To be continued_


	7. Chapter 7

**Chapter 7**

Such a wonderful dream, so vivid and realistic it had been that for a few hours even the pain had faded away. For the first time in days John had slept peacefully and for the first time he had felt rested in the morning. But not for long. With the first light of the morning the dream had faded away and the pain had come back – worse than before. Hours, John knew he had only hours to live now. He felt the burning fever that shook his body, the infection cursing through his veins. His heart did no longer beat regularly and when he took a deep breath he could hear this rattling and frightening sound in his lung. Blood. Dear god, drowning was a terrible death. John shivered. Better dye fast through the hands of an assassin than this: this constant pain, this desperation and the deep longing to hear his voice again. Only once. He had promised his Dream-Sherlock to hold on a little bit longer, only one day. And he would try to keep his promise. He always did! Even when the promise was given to a ghost created by his own mind and not to a living person. It was difficult and became more so the further they moved on through the blinding heat of the day. No shadow covered his face as they carried him on and on. Dying would be so easy now. To give in. To give up.

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Sherlock knew which road they were heading along. It was only one way they could move on from where they had rested in the night. Two other options had been blocked, one by approaching English forces, the other because days ago an explosion had blocked the road with brick and mortar from a nearby old palace. There was only one road and thanks to Mycroft's technical equipment Sherlock could watch that now. Oh stupid brother to believe he could stop Sherlock, make him behave when John was at risk. Of course Sherlock had hacked Mycroft's computer again and of course he had taken control of this flying drone that now hovered high above the caravan. And of course Sherlock had access to the satellite system. He was thankful for that but not sure it would be enough. Sherlock had planned ahead: There was only one possible resting place, a secluded and abandoned village on a plain between the mountains. There he was waiting, waiting for the caravan to arrive. Oh how he loved surprises. And what a surprise those kidnappers would get. The most precious of their hostages would die the moment they arrived at their resting place. What a mess. Sherlock had prepared his weapon, a little needle with a nerve toxin that would stop John's heart. Sherlock had learned how to use a blowpipe when he had once hunted a murderer through the South American jungle, a useful little trick. It didn't matter where the needle would enter John's body the heart would stop only seconds afterwards. There they were, moving slowly up the path. For the first time in days Sherlock felt focused and relaxed, he had a target now. He took a deep breath. It was essential not to think of the one fear that was still nagging in his mind: What if he would come too late to give John the antidote to the toxin? What...? Sherlock dared not to think along this path.

xxxxxxxx

God, Sherlock. Sherlock. Sherlock. John tried to breathe in the rhythm of his loved ones name. Breathing was essential. Holding on to life was all that mattered. Suddenly there was pain in his left arm, not the wounded side of his body... John tried to move his head but felt too tired to go on with it. Like a needle it was at first, but it spread like molten fire on his skin. John moaned. The pain was unbearable. In his breast. God, his heart was on fire. John tried to breathe but no air reached his lungs, again, again he tried and he felt his body cramping. His heart made a skip, than another. John wanted to scream, but no sound came over his lips. Dying was horrible. Painful. Sherlock! Sherlock! His mind pleaded for help but there was no answer and John lost consciousness. His heart made a soft beat, than another and another, becoming slower and slower. One minute and 28 seconds after the needle had hit his arm, John was dead.

_To be continued_

**Sorry you had to wait so long for this chapter, but I am rather busy at the moment and only found time to write this today. I have counted your votes and as it seems you do want John to live. But maybe I am a wicked author and do what I like… or maybe Sherlock will be in time. You'll see when I post the new chapter. I am writing it at the moment. There are two chapters and an epilogue to come and I will post an alternate ending afterwards. Thank you for your reviews. **


	8. Chapter 8

Sorry it took such a long time to post this chapter. I have a lot of work to do at the moment, I fear. But this morning I found some time to write… And now you will all learn something new about Mycroft Holmes Thank you all for reading and for your kind reviews.

**Chapter 8**

Mycroft Holmes felt the burning pain in his chest, a reminder of his exhaustion and the fear that was constantly nagging at his mind. Caring was not an advantage. Mycroft had not slept for two days, the computers were humming softly around him, telephones ringing. Anthea was his never ending fountain of coffee. It kept him running. Mycroft massaged his temples – headache was getting worse – when his phone suddenly vibrated again.

"Yes", he snapped.

"Hm, Sir, Captain Miller, Sir... we... we..."

"Don't stammer, man. What is it now? Found my brother?" Mycroft again felt his furious anger attacking his own body, a throbbing pain in his head. So stupid. He should have known not to trust his brother. Why should Sherlock for once behave, only for once do as his older brother had asked: Stay with the team. Don't try something stupid, don't do it on your own. But it was the first time that Mycroft understood his brother's motives. Love was a strong emotion. Mycroft had once in his youth allowed himself that sentimental feeling, only once and it had been an experience he had in some ways regretted since. This love had nearly cost him his brother. Sophia. Had she been worse it? Mycroft's attachment had started his brother's downward spiral into drug abuse and pain. Mycroft knew some parts of what had transpired throughout Sherlock's youth, but every time he looked at his younger brother he knew there were worse things, things Mycroft did not want to know, could not deal with. He, the British Government, was so weak when it came to his little brother.

"No sir, I am sorry."

"Better be so, Captain, because I will hold you responsible if something should happen to my brother... or John Watson. I gave Sherlock into your care, so don't you dare coming back without him. Bring him home. Safe. Unharmed. I thought I had made myself clear on that." Mycroft's knuckles were white, he had to steady himself on his desk. So tired.

"Yes, sir, very clear, sir. But... but..."

"Don't stammer, Captain! What is it?"

"We think we have located them in the mountains, an hour drive away, sir... there..." The soldier's voice stopped again and Mycroft's temper flared. It was something most people did not know: Mycroft's moods were as changing, his temper as burning hot as Sherlock's. Only that Mycroft unlike his brother had learned early in his live to control his emotions. He took a deep breath. "Speak, man", he said now more calmly.

"There had been an explosion."

Mycroft felt the earth rush towards him. The lack of sleep and the exhaustion suddenly hit him with full force. He felt a throbbing pain in his breast.

"Sir?" Mycroft was on his knees, breathing hard.

"Find him", he snapped, "find my brother or I swear Guantanamo Bay will seem to be paradise in comparison to what I will do to you!" He ended the phone call. Sweat was on his face and Mycroft touched his left breast. Not good. Not at all. Anthea was next to him, her hand on his shoulder.

"You should rest, Mycroft", she said softly, "you won't be any help if you kill yourself."

Mycroft tried to push himself up, he stumbled slightly. He knew the signs. Pain was cursing through his breast and breathing became harder every second. He let himself fall into his chair and looked at the woman who called herself Anthea at the moment.

"Your heart again?" she asked softly. She touched his cheeks, caught a drop of sweat with her thumb.

Mycroft nodded. "The pills, please..." He was shaking now. "In the desk, left side... the pills", he closed his eyes listening to the noises of the woman searching his desk. Something was pressed to his lips, small and round. He opened his mouth, swallowed. She then held a glass of water to his lips, cold, calming.

Mycroft opened his eyes again. She smiled. Something she seldom did. "Better?"

"I can't lose him", he whispered.

"I know."

"Not after all I did. We did."

"I know."

"I can't lose him, Sophia, I simply can't."

_To be continued_


	9. Chapter 9

A longer chapter this time. Two more to come. Love Esta!

**Chapter 9**

Sherlock had never been good in saying goodbye. The last time had been after his jump from the hospital roof. He had not been able to withstand the temptation, the longing to see John one last time. After his stunt Sherlock had not been sure he would survive the hunt. Moriarty's men – and women – had all been cruel killers, ruthless and dangerous. Sherlock had wanted to touch John one last time before giving up his own humanity to become a killer himself. He had wanted to hold John's hand, kiss his forehead, even his lips. Something he had never dared before.

John was in hospital, highly sedated and asleep. He had finally collapsed after hours and hours fighting with doctors and nurses, shouting at Greg Lestrade, holding the sobbing Mrs. Hudson, punching Mycroft... In the end John, totally confused after what he had witnessed and with a throbbing head from his encounter with the bike, had run towards the morgue. They had told him he could not see Sherlock, too much blood, too much of a mess, too much to bear for a friend even if he was a doctor. John had not cared; he had run and pushed open the door. And there he had fallen apart. Not over a dead body – because Sherlock, himself slightly injured from the jump, had been removed by Mycroft's men hours ago – he fell apart because on one of the tables he saw Sherlock's coat, his scarf, his shirt... all was sealed in plastic bags. But none the less, John had seen the blood – dark traces made the blue scarf nearly black, splatters of red on the grey coat.

John's knees had given away – or so Mycroft had told Sherlock later – and he had simply let himself fall on the white and polished floor. Another motionless body. For minutes no reaction. Only when Molly came into the room, John had started sobbing, his torn voice screaming in the silence of the morgue. Molly had started to cry as well. She had known all along Sherlock's plan was a bad idea. She had tried to help – oh poor Molly, always trying to be nice – but John had no longer responded to any human contact. In the end Molly had called another doctor. She had feared John might harm himself. The doctor had sedated John and transported him to the security ward. Emotionally instable. Possible attempt of suicide. Sherlock knew the file.

A lone tear escaped his right eye while he sat watching his sleeping friend. So sorry. He was so sorry.

Sherlock kissed John softly. "Live John, please live. For me. For us... or for whatever you believe in."

He grabbed John's hand, squeezed it and for one moment John stirred softly.

"You know I am not good at this... these emotion things... I don't even know what is in your head at the moment. John... John... Goodbye my friend. My only friend."

And then he left. A second time. He would not do that a third.

xxxxx

Sherlock panted as he ran through the heat. Explosions shook the earth around him. He was not good in saying goodbye. And he would not say those words again. Never. Never. He would safe John or he would embrace death – like a companion, a friend, a brother. Together. Sherlock and John. John and Sherlock. Another explosion, this time nearer to his motionless friend. Sherlock had prepared this well, the whole area was a mine field. Five minutes, 12 seconds. Then the last explosion would rip the earth apart – exactly at the spot where John was resting. Dying. His comrades sat nearby: Hunched figures in the fire. Only one capturer was left to look after them. Only one to kill.

First Sherlock had planned only to grab John and run. But he knew the look John would give him: THIS look, the look that always made Sherlock more human, more caring. He could not leave the other men because John would always blame him for that. And he was right. John... John... Sherlock ran faster. He would simply have to cut their hands free and give them a hint. Run. Run. Perhaps they could even be of some use. John had to be carried... and Sherlock... oh... he was so tired. He felt the exhaustion in every muscle. Lack of sleep, lack of food... John would scold him for that. Sherlock was panting now and he threw himself on the ground to avoid being seen. Seconds later he was back on his feet. Only a few meters now and one man was all that stood between him and John.

Sherlock had killed before, but never like this. It had always been in an open fight: Man to man, man to woman... not a cold blooded murder from behind. Sherlock moved towards the capturer with soft steps. Do not turn round. Do not turn round. He grabbed the man's head and pressed his left hand firmly over his mouth. He took the knife and slit the man's throat. A clean cut, gurgling noises as the man tried to breathe, his warm blood spilled over Sherlock's hand and arm. Another lost live.

Sherlock let go of the body and turned. The captured soldiers stared at him, no one spoke. Idiots. Morons.

Sherlock moved over and cut the first man's bounds.

"Move", he said."Help your comrades."

"Special forces?" The captain with the bleeding arm asked.

"No!"

"Hired guman?"

"No!"

"What... who... who are you?" The last man was free and the captain still rambled on.

"Consulting detective."

"Con... you are the Holmes guy... John's friend. He spoke of you." The captain massaged his hands trying to get some blood back into them. The other soldiers were on their feet, too. Another explosion. Three minutes, five seconds.

Sherlock ran over to John.

"I am sorry", the captain said, "he... he... is dead."

"Shut up", Sherlock snapped. No, no, no, no...

Sherlock grabbed John's blood stained shirt and ripped it apart. Two minutes, 48 seconds. Sherlock touched John's pale chest. No breath, no heartbeat, not good. He knew it was part of the plan. No soldier would care about a dead body when hell broke loose around him. Part of the plan... Sherlock and his stupid, stupid, stupid plans.

"John", Sherlock whispered, "I'll get you back. I promise." He took the syringe from his pocket breast, a long needle and a clear liquid.

Sherlock continued speaking as if John could hear him. 2 minutes, 15 seconds. "You told me once one look from my eyes could pierce your heart... I fear you were right... but it is not my look, you know... it is... oh god... I hope I am doing this right." And then he rammed the needle deep down into John's heart. He heard the other soldiers gasp as he injected the fluid into John's body. An antidote mixed with adrenaline and hell what Mycroft had at his disposition. Something new maybe, maybe something old and as effective. He did not care as long as John's heart started to work again. He pulled the syringe back and started the heart massage. One, two, three. Breathe. John's lips felt cold on Sherlock's. Not good. One, two, thee. Again. Lips on lips.

"You", Sherlock snapped at the captain again, "help me carry him. The rest of you: RUN!"

58 Seconds.

Sherlock took one end of the stretcher, the captain another as bullets started to fly around them. The idiots of Taliban had finally understood there were no attacking forces but well timed explosions. They had finally understood it all had been a trap: A trap laid out by a very, very angry Sherlock Holmes.

"RUN", he bellowed!

And then the earth started to shake!

xxxxx

When Mycroft Holmes saw the footage of the explosions in Afghanistan he remembered why he had never let his little brother play with his chemistry set when they were children.

_To be continued!_


	10. Chapter 10

Sorry this chapter took so long. I had a lot of work to do and I simply needed some time to put down what was in my head. As promise there will be at least another chapter and an alternate ending. There is another idea for a story twist in my head but I am not sure I will put that down... let's see ;-)

I have an announcement to make: Since three weeks I am an eager twitterer, oh yeah slightly addicted I fear. But: I would like you to follow me (you will always know when I publish something new) and to encourage you there will be a special treat. If I reach at least 50 followers I will write a crossover story. I am really tempted to do so, but I think I need a bit encouragement for that: A Harry Potter-Sherlock-Crossover. And no: No Hogwarts. But have you ever wondered what might happen, if Sherlock and Snape will have to solve a murder together? Oh those deductions Sherlock could make about Sn... Avada... ohoh...Do you think John will fall for this beautiful witch called Fleur Weasley? Remember Hagrid's umbrella? He might not be the only one caring around a wand like that... hehehe. So if you like to read any of that you can tempt me on twitter Hol_Jessica

Reviews for „The burned man" are appreciated, by the way. Enjoy:

**Chapter 10**

John had always wondered how dying might be like, what someone would feel. Nothingness? The glowing light of eternity? John had always loved life, even the day he had witnessed Sherlock's suicide he could not have parted with what he beheld so dear. Life. Breathing. The sun, the air on his face. Children's laughter. It was part of his soul, he had become a doctor because of that, for Christ's sake. He loved life so much he tried to rescue as many as possible. But not himself. Never himself.

John remembered the first day he had ever thought living was a harder thing to do than simply giving up. When he was shot the first time in Afghanistan the pain had been too much. He had cried out in the heat and after hours of pain and no help in reach he had begged his comrade to put a bullet into his head. He had thanked god so many times afterwards that the man had simply refused what the doctor had ordered him to do. Life. Life.

Giving up never came to his mind this time. Perhaps because he had something to come back to, perhaps out of fear. Without John Sherlock was lost, without John he would search death. John and Sherlock, Sherlock and John.

Dying was strange this time. The pain had subsided. It was no soft slipping into darkness, but a rapid decline. One moment he blinked then everything went black. Nothing afterwards. Nothing he would remember later. For a long time. Eternity.

It was a piercing pain in his heart that brought him back to life. And soft lips on his.

"I breathe for you as long as it takes, John, please come back, come back…"

He wanted to answer but no sound came over his lips. Another kiss, air filled his lungs. The earth shattered beneath him, dark vibrations as if hell had finally decided to spit him out onto earth again.

"Has he got a pulse?" Another voice.

"Yes… breathe… please John." Kisses again.

John's eyelids fluttered.

"John?" Sherlock's lips at his ear.

He groaned.

Was it raining? Drip. Drop. Another one on his cheek.

"John", Sherlock's voice betrayed his tears.

John slowly opened his eyes and saw the most beautiful clouds he had ever seen, storm clouds, rain clouds: Sherlock' eyes. Sherlock.

xxxx

The British Government had never left his office to go on a mission – never until today. As Mycroft climbed out of the helicopter, umbrella in hand – whatever he wanted to do with that in the desert – the soldiers saluted.

Mycroft Holmes was not good when it came to emotions. Caring was not an advantage, his little brother had proved that time after time. Today again. But what he saw there, in the middle of nowhere, even made his cold heart ache.

Sherlock sat in the dust, his face nearly black from ash and fire, cleaned only at his cheeks, where tears had streamed down, over his cheekbones to the chin. His lips were trembling and he pressed a body to his chest. John.

For two seconds Mycroft thought John was dead, two seconds that mad his heart stumble. But then he saw the slow rise an fall of John's chest. And the smile on John's face, the light shining from Sherlock's eyes.

Mycroft Holmes had never believed in love, but seeing his brother like that, suddenly planted doubt in his heart. Maybe, possibly he had found true love at last.

_To be continued_


	11. Chapter 11

**Chapter 11**

_Seven month later_

"Hurry, John, we haven't got all day… a case, finally a case!" Sherlock sprinted up the staircase, taking two steps in one. John groaned and slowly followed, one step after another, leaning heavily on his cane. He had a limp again, not a psychosomatic but a real one. The tissue und muscles on his leg had been severely damaged, the leg had become infected while crawling through the sand and dust. It had made everything worse. In the end John had been lucky: He had a limp but still a leg.

"John!" Sherlock had already reached the fourth floor while John slowly stepped unto the first. John could have been annoyed with Sherlock who again simply ignored that his lover could no longer move as fast as before, and clearly not as graceful as a panther like Sherlock always did. But John wasn't. To be honest: John was entirely grateful that Sherlock behaved as he did now. The first weeks had been a nightmare of pain, slow recovery and relapses. But Sherlock had been the worst: he had tried to keep his mask but had failed bitterly. He had looked so lost. And most times when John had woken up from one of his restless sleeps Sherlock had clung to him: Sometimes only one hand on John's chest or on his arm. But ever so often he woke from Sherlock pressing John's palm against his face feeling John's pulse the same time. Crying. It had hurt to see Sherlock like that.

Ignoring John's wound was far better. Especially since no one else did. He often found Lestrade staring at him and then, feeling ashamed of his actions, the detective inspector suddenly became very interested in his own shoes. And Mrs Hudson, poor Mrs Hudson: Every day she asked if John was all right, if he needed anything, anything, he could tell her, she would care… of course she was not his housekeeper, but in such a bad situation and…Yes, Mrs Hudson, thank you, no I am fine… it was nerve-racking.

Sherlock's voice pushed him out of his daydreams. "Bedroom", he called, "second door to the left." John slowly walked into the flat. Klick, klick… the annoying sound of his cane accompanied him. Perhaps after rehab he would be able to walk without it again even though he would never fully recover. He found Donovan staring at him, disgust clearly written all over her face. Yes, he was no longer a good looking man. Sometimes he called himself the phantom of Baker Street and laughed. Sherlock never got the joke. John had an angry red burn mark on his cheek, crisscrossed marks on his neck and on a small part of his head the hair still had not grown back, probably never would. Children stared, even adults did. But most time John recognized pity in their eyes. He had stopped caring. He was alive. Alive. That was all that mattered. That and Sherlock.

John walked into the bedroom, Sherlock's face was already angry red. "Sherlock?"

"Look what those morons did. I told Lestrade not to move the body but this idiot over there", Sherlock pointed at Anderson whose face had gotten a pinkly shade, "this complete fool wanted to check the back of… how could anyone work like that?" John grinned. Sherlock was finally back at his normal self.

"Don't know", John said, "but we could start with examining the cause of death?" John knelt next to Sherlock, he flinched as his knee protested against this forceful move.

Sherlock mumbled something to himself and started to examine the body when something happened to what Lestrade later would always only refer to as "The incident".

"This is police work, for god's sake", Anderson said furiously, "but leave it to the freak and the cripple to mess everything up."

John could not even comprehend what was said when Sherlock was already unto Anderson, his hands closing around Andersons throat. "How dare you", he hissed. "How dare you call him names you… you…"

Anderson choked. Donovan came running into the room. Sherlock pressed his hands even closer around Anderson's neck. John stared dumbstruck. Donovan pulled her gun. Anderson's face became blue. Donovan shouted, threatened to shoot Sherlock.

And that was when the soldier came back. Suddenly John took a stance in the middle of the room. "Stop that at once", he shouted. "All of you. Donovan lower your gun, Sherlock stop strangling Anderson, oh and Anderson: Shut up!"

To John's own astonishment everyone did as he said. Anderson choked and coughed, Sherlock breathed hard as he tried to control his rage and Donovan stared at John. "I am sorry", she said, "sorry for everything." And then she left the room.

John walked over to Sherlock and put his hand on his shoulder. "It is all right, now."

"Nothing is all right", Sherlock whispered as his head sunk on his breast. "It is not all right they are staring at you. It is not all right they are calling you names. It is not all right. It is not."

"I don't care", John said and kissed Sherlock's hand. Anderson still coughed. "You never care what others say about you, so, I don't care what they say about me. They don't know. They don't understand. Morons, remember?"

Sherlock chuckled. "Thank you", he said.

"Always, Sherlock, always."

_To be continued_


	12. Chapter 12

**Epilogue**

It was the evening after "The incident" and Sherlock's mood had not gotten any better. So when John finally had enough he grabbed Sherlock's collar and while kissing him desperately had dragged him into their bedroom. They were nearly naked now. John only in his pants, Sherlock in his pants and shirt, all buttons open. Blood red on white skin, his hair fell in dark curls upon his face. Snow white. John would never call him that aloud.

Sherlock kissed John's hairline, traced along his scars. "You don't have to do this", John whispered, "it's not beautiful, I know."

"Shut up, John", Sherlock breathed into John's ear, nibbled at his earlobe. "I want to, I want everything of you… oh…"

Sherlock's eyes widened as John grabbed his length, still clad in shorts but sensitive nonetheless. John kissed Sherlock's neck. He knew there was one spot on the curve between his throat and shoulder that always send Sherlock over the edge, made him loose control. John softly bit him, his teeth only slightly brushing along Sherlock's skin.

Sherlock grabbed the sheets and John smiled to himself. In some ways Sherlock had not changed at all. Caring, loving, embracing all the feelings John could create in him, all this was still knew to Sherlock. "John… John…" John had no mercy with his pleading lover, he kissed his breast, his belly and Sherlock winced below him, his eyes were wide and unfocused. A stormy sea again. John pushed Sherlock's shirt from his shoulders and his body unto the mattress. He focused on Sherlock's breathing while pushing down his pants. He always had to be careful at this point. Sometimes Sherlock panicked. That most times resulted in Sherlock fleeing the room, sleeping on the sofa and long discussions in the morning why John should better leave Sherlock or better not or… Sherlock was not rational in that.

But this time Sherlock only whispered John's name. Again and again. He let John completely take control, something quite rare. And when John took Sherlock in his hands the detective started shivering all over.

John kissed him. "Shhhh… it is all right…"

"Your hands…" Sherlock's eyes focused for a few seconds on John's face. "Everything… so beautiful…"

John kissed him again.

"Please John", Sherlock never begged, "please, John, make me yours, please… I need you… please…"

John chuckled. "I thought we had already made that clear: of course you are mine."

"John", Sherlock spoke so soft John could easily have overheard it, "I love you… dear god… I love you. Please."

Sherlock never used these three words. He said kind things sometimes, was quit vocal in bed, touched John lovingly. But he never said those words. This evening he said them a third time, a fourth and a fifth. They made love twice this evening, once raw and exhausting, once slow and caring. And as they lay half asleep next to each other Sherlock said them for a sixth time.

"You know, John", he said, "I am not good at these things. But I do love you. And whatever people say I do not mind your scars. As it is I do quit enjoy watching them…"

John raised his eyebrow sure to witness another of Sherlock strange experiments.

"Don't interrupt, John! I do enjoy watching them, touching them, kissing them, because every scar reminds me how close I was to lose you and how lucky I am to have you back. They make me focus, John. I know how easily I hurt people, I do not intend to, but I do. You make me focus, all this", he traced his fingers along one very solid scar on Johns temple, "all this make me focus and every time I look at you it reminds me of these three silly and stupid words I simply can't bring over my lips. Even though I think them every time I look at you. I might not say it, but I mean it: I do love you."

John started to cry at these words. "Thank you", he said. "Thank you."

"Always, John. Always."

**The END**

_**March 2013: Still not written the alternative ending... sorry.**_


End file.
